


I'm Not Bitter

by murderous_marigold



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Queer Themes, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderous_marigold/pseuds/murderous_marigold





	1. Chapter 1

For someone who was “...such a sweet kid, never any trouble, straight as an arrow” (oh the irony) I grew up to be nothing like the perfect child my parents thought I would become. Not poised, not pleasant. Frigid, not “feminine.” Pushed to the brink, I lashed out by actively subverting all expectations, custom, decency.

Haha. “Decency.” God that word makes me want to vomit.

Shearing away my waist length locks thus marked the first milestone in my journey to adulthood. To the stylist: 

“I want my hair to look like... this.”

(no, I don’t give a flying fuck if I “look like a boy,” cut it all off)

Cut it off, cut away the past, the poison, the pain. Fallen strands coalesce into fibre, becoming the loose threads of my cocoon. Closing my eyes, I envision myself taking a thread in hand and unraveling myself to reveal my transformation. A new look, a new attitude, a new identity. This is who I am, fuckers, take it or leave it- I honestly don’t care anymore- but either way, leave me be.This mantra strengthens my resolve, deterred regret, reaffirmed the conviction that this was right, this was the veritable me that I was always meant to be. 

The second stage of my transformation: just before departing last August, I purged my contacts, cutting off all ties to my high school relationships. I burned all those rickety, rotten bridges-yes, all of them- to raze my past, to clear the way for a fresh start. Terrified of confrontation, this silent yet absolute termination provided an escape route, a way to cast off the shame, the self-loathing, the resentment accumulated from years -no, a lifetime- of putting up with other people’s bullshit. 

“Who needs those toxic fuckers anyways?” I told the reflection in the bedroom mirror repeatedly, attempting to exterminate any lingering traces of apprehension and regret. 

And yet… Fear of isolation, desire for affection, desperation for the validation of my existence… despite my best efforts there’s no stopping the tumultuous torrent of emotions and fucked-up thoughts. The best I can do is keep it all bottled up and out of the public eye. Ha, I say "bottle it up" but really that merely amounts to keeping the nervous breakdowns and confessions of suicidal ideation to a minimum.

How cliché: the abused, misunderstood queer who puts up a front of normalcy to mask their unceasing desire to throw themselves off the nearest parking garage. 

Though I suppose it isn’t cliché if it’s my lived reality.


	2. Chapter 2

I suppose I should have been at least somewhat happy to finally get out my parent’s house for good, but the truth is, I didn’t really feel much beyond a muted, paradoxical sense of both relief and anxiety. College isn’t the “real world,” yet the notion that I’ll be spending the next four years away from the place I grew up; away from the people I knew; away from everything that I knew- for better or for worse- should at least elicit some sort of stronger reaction, at least beyond the dull ambivalence I’m experiencing. Hate, nostalgia, remorse, resentment, anything would be better, really. 

On move in day, my mother and I unpack my stuff, rearrange the furniture, try our best to make the old, stuffy dorm room seem more like home and less like a storage unit. There’s no AC, and in the heat of mid August I can already tell that it’ll be more or less unbearable for the remainder of the summer. While it’s fairly spacious as far college dorms go, the absence of any personal furnishings or decorations it may as well be a shitty, oversized hostel room. 

It takes about an hour to finish unpacking, and as much as my mom is reluctant to let me go, her flight leaves this evening and she can no longer continue delay the inevitable. On the verge of tears, she hugs me, tells me to promise to call every day and to remember to take my medication and to take care of myself and meet lots of people and study hard but not too hard and let her know if I have a problem or get homesick. She turns her back to me before I can see the tears, but the gentle hitching of her shoulders, the way that she vigorously wipes her face with her handkerchief gives her away.

She boards the bus back to the airport, back to that town hundreds of miles away, back to the place I left behind, back to the house to which I vainly wish I would never, ever return. I love my mom... but that house, those sprawling suburbs, that dirty dying city, I wouldn’t shed a tear if I were to never see those places again. 

They can burn to the ground, I don’t give a fuck.


End file.
